Thursday, January 31, 2013

Fan Fiction: Guy's Last Ride.

Somewhere on the 101, a yellow Lamborghini hurtles down the freeway at perilous speeds.

Behind the wheel is TV superchef Guy Fieri. His passenger is Food Network president Bob Tuschman, who grips his seat in terror.

“Guy, you’re coked out of your mind. Can I drive?”

“No way, Jose! When I’m on this much powdered booger sugar, there’s only one man fit to command the Mustardcraft. Touch this wheel and I’ll Ginsu you like a trout!”

“Can you at least slow down?”

“Listen bitch boy, if I don’t know what I’m doin’, my name isn’t Guy, my balls don’t have a perfectly manicured goatee, and that whore’s body isn’t rotting in the trunk! Just sit there like a good monkey while I score some H from my hermano Carlos!”

The Lambo rips down the road, past a police cruiser staked out on the median.

The cops look at the other.

“Nobody does 95 on my highway.”

“Not with that hair.”

Inside the Lambo, Bob holds a spatula precariously under Guy’s nostrils. Guy snorts yet another massive bump of Bolivian marching powder off the cold steel.

“I’m higher than Hendrix in a hot air balloon!”

A siren sounds from behind. Behind his coke-flecked face he spots the cop cruiser baring down on them.

Guy pops the glove box, revealing a stash of weapons. He pulls out a pistol.

“Grab a heater! Let’s roast these pigs!”

With one hand on the wheel, he shoots haphazardly out window.

“Bob, start shooting, you pussy piece of shit!”

Bob ducks for cover in the passenger seat.

“If we make it out of this, I’m going to HGTV!”

The first police bullet shatters the Lambo’s rear window. The second hits tire, sending the yellow missile spinning into the other lane.


The Lambo slams into an oncoming minivan. Twenty yards away, the police cruiser skids to a stop. The officers train their weapons on the wreckage.

A yellow door slides upward and open, revealing a battered Guy still behind the wheel, platinum-blonde mane stained with blood.

“You can’t kill me! I’m a legend!”

He raises his weapon. Three shots tear through his torso. Guy’s bloated face spurts a trickle of bloody saliva. He slumps forward, revealing Bob holding a gun to the back of the very monster he’d created.

Bob’s hand shakes. “I… I did this…”

The cops open fire, blowing Bob to bits. His bullet-riddled body slumps on top of Guy’s blood-saturated corpse.

Guy sputters his final breaths.

“Flavor Town… I’m… comin’ home…”

One cop turns to the other.

“Well, that was fucked up.”

By Anonymous

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